


Three Meetings

by gallantrejoinder



Category: Original Work, Star Trek
Genre: F/F, Flirting, Glove Kink, Hand & Finger Kink, I wrote a Starfleet AU of my own OCs let's just go with it, Vulcan Culture, Vulcan Kisses, pushy humans and their pesky seductions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 02:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13401258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallantrejoinder/pseuds/gallantrejoinder
Summary: A native of Vulcan whose prestigious heritage is marred by her human grandmother has finally made it into Starfleet. The ambition T'raving Batra has held since the age of three has finally been fulfilled, and there is nothing to stop her from achieving success now.... Well, excepting the pesky human girl who won't stop finding her way into her personal space, and who insists T'raving call her Carrie.





	Three Meetings

Her uniform is immaculate, her eyeshadow is neat, and the roundness of her ears is hidden away beneath her smooth and flat hair. She has been preparing for this day since she was three years old and understood that her destiny must lie in Starfleet exploration and command, and nobody can ruin it for her now. Not the doubts of her mother, the sentimentality of her father, or the failure of her brothers. _She_ has succeeded, and that is all that matters. Nothing can stop her now.

Except, as T’raving walks through the doors to the bridge, a human comes crashing into her with a shriek, dishevelling her instantly, and forcefully thrusting all manner of emotions and irrational thoughts upon her with bare hands against her skin. The two of them stumble back through the doors to the bridge, which close with a quiet hiss behind the human girl, who is still untangling herself from T’raving.

Smoothing her expression into one of polite but very mild interest, T’raving steps back, expecting an apology.

“Oh, my god, I am clumsy aren’t I? You must be the Vulcan, right? Is it true what they say about your ears?”

Before T’raving can stop her, the human girl – in engineering red, T’raving notes – reaches out to push back T’raving’s hair and see for herself. Stepping back even further in alarm, T’raving instantly stops the girl’s outstretched arm with a grab to the wrist.

“I would rather you did not,” she says, firmly.

“Oh! Right, yeah, the touching thing. They warned us, of course, it’s just – well I didn’t expect you actually _be_ that uptight, you know?”

“I do not,” T’raving replies frostily, feeling a tick of frustration bubble up inside her.

She forces her jaw to unclench.

“Right,” the girl says, a funny sort of half-smile playing about her lips. “Anyway. I’m Carrie. Carrie Carlyle! Engineering.”

“I know.”

“… What are you up to, then, here on the bridge?”

“I am reporting in, as is my specified duty. You are currently blocking the entrance.”

“I know.”

The girl bites her bottom lip, suddenly looking up with an expression T’raving has no formal reference for. Her grandmother’s more human expressions have never looked like this, and the holos from Earth are something she’s never paid attention to.

“Excuse me,” she says, pushing past the girl – Carrie – to get to the door. The movement forces her to brush against Carrie’s bare arm, as Carrie appears to be in the habit of wearing the less formal and more fashionable dress-based designs of the Starfleet uniform. The brief touch almost makes T’raving stumble, because it reveals an overwhelming interest in her from Carrie that borders on alarming.

But then she is through the doors, and pays it no mind.

 

* * *

 

The second time they meet, it is in the communal dining hall. T’raving takes her replicated food – which is adequately similar to Vulcan’s food to satisfy her – and sits alone in a corner, intending to study further history of Starfleet on her data pad. It is an unfortunate aspect of her genealogy that she has inherited not only her grandmother’s ears, but her human predilection for studying in noisy environments, rather than quiet ones. It is not becoming of a Vulcan to struggle to concentrate without aids, but it cannot be helped, and no one will question her here. As the only Vulcan aboard the _Cityscape_ , many of her habits go unquestioned, assumed to be the result of her home culture.

And nobody, thus far, has seen her ears uncovered, which also helps.

It is only logical to allow for their assumptions to go unchallenged if it mutually benefits their work ethic.

One human does not seem to have gotten the message, however – because Carrie has made her way over to T’raving's table, and is currently in the process of flopping herself down beside her, heedless of T’raving’s privacy.

“God, it’s freezing down there! I tell you what, Miss T’raving, I could hardly believe it! I had to come straight up here to get myself a warm hot chocolate with a little whisky on the side to warm up.”

“You were on the planetside mission?” T’raving says, finding herself concerned.

“Sure! It was great. Ice, ice, and more ice, ha! Hence the gloves.” She holds up her hands, still clad in Starfleet-issue leather gloves, and wiggles her fingers in T’raving’s face. T’raving draws back, stamping down the mild irritation in her stomach.

“Starfleet regulation states that any ensign returning from a planetside mission ought to report immediately to their superior officer, and decontaminate all potential –”

Carrie waves her gloved hand to the side, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I was freezing my tits off, though, so it’s whatever, I’ll do it later. It’s warm in here, though, huh?”

Without another word, Carrie suddenly brings her fingers to her face, tugging off the gloves with her teeth, a finger at a time. The process seems to take an unusually long time, as each slender finger is revealed, and the paleness of her palm.

T’raving swallows.

“You want a sip of my chocolate?” Carrie gives a sweet smile, startling T’raving.

“No,” T’raving says, after a brief pause, in which she debates whether Carrie knows exactly what it is she’s offering.

“Oh! I forgot! The Vulcan sugar thing, right? It’ll make you drunk. Not that I’d mind seeing that, between you and me – you look like you could use some pepping up. How about the whiskey, then? Would you like a sip of that?”

T’raving looks down at her data pad. “No, thank you.”

“You sure?” T’raving can hear the smile in Carrie’s voice. “C’mon. I bet I could tempt you. It’s not like whiskey could make you drunk, is it? I mean, assuming you’re _all_ Vulcan?”

T’raving feels a thrill of fear run down her veins, but there is no possible way for Carrie to know – the days of First Officer Spock are long over, it is hardly worth commenting on Vulcan-Human hybrids anymore –

“If you will excuse me,” T’raving blurts out, standing abruptly and walking away before Carrie has the chance to respond.

She tries nevertheless, of course, because T’raving is learning that Carrie embodies the very essence of human stubbornness, but they lose each other outside the hall. For that, T’raving is grateful.

It only occurs to her later to wonder how Carrie discovered her name when they had never been introduced.

 _Foolish_. It would not have been difficult. T’raving Batra, the only Vulcan aboard, would not have been difficult to inquire about. It is only that –

T’raving does not know _why_ she is worth inquiring about.

 

* * *

 

The third time they meet, it is when T’raving opens her eyes, mid-meditation, to hear knocking on the door to her quarters.

Frowning slightly, before forcing her face into submission, she stands, and walks over to the door in her bare feet and loose sleep clothes.

The door opens at the touch of her fingers to the keypad to reveal Carrie, standing before her with a calm expression.

“Hi there.”

“Ensign Carlyle.”

“Call me Carrie, Ensign Batra.”

T’raving pauses.

“You did not defer to formality when we last met,” she says, stiffly.

“I did _not_ ,” Carrie says, smiling a little. “But then, I think maybe you must have found me abominably rude.”

“I – did not –”

“I think you did,” Carrie says, stepping forward, but there is no malice to her voice.

T’raving feels her heart speed up as Carrie’s movement draws her inside the room, and the door hisses closed behind her.

“I think I owe you an apology.”

“It is appreciated, but unnecessary. Vulcans do not require apologies for misunderstandings. Even –”

T’raving swallows, forcing the words out.

“– Even we who claim only partial Vulcan ancestry.”

Carrie’s smile softens into something more real than she has shown to T’raving before.

“There’s nothing _only_ about it, Ensign Batra. I’ve been of the belief since I first saw you that you could never be something _only_.”

“T’raving,” T’raving whispers. “You may call me T’raving.”

“T’raving,” Carrie repeats, her gaze leaving T’raving’s eyes to gaze hungrily at her mouth.

It sets something inside T’raving to fluttering wildly, and she does not know which side of her heritage to ascribe the blame to for it.

“Carrie.”

Carrie’s eyes meet T’raving’s again, and she looks steadily as she speaks.

“You can say no, you know. I’ve been pushy. I don’t know how not to be when I want something. But I never act without consent.”

T’raving shakes her head, and Carrie steps back, something like disappointment flickering in her eyes, and T’raving doesn’t know how to explain that she meant _no, I trust you, I’m saying yes, yes, kiss me_ –

So she kisses her, instead.

In the human way.

Their lips meet suddenly, T’raving for the first time regretting her lack of experience. But Carrie more than makes up for it, responding instantly, pressing back with a fervour that leaves T’raving breathless. Through their meeting skin, T’raving can feel every moment of longing, every sudden flush of lust that’s washed through Carrie’s body since they met, coming to fruition, all at once.

She pulls back with a shaking breath, and looks at Carrie with what is probably the most naked expression she’s worn since she was less than a year old. Carrie looks back, and the wonder in her eyes is somehow more incredible than the kiss.

Slowly, Carrie reaches down, and draws T’raving’s arm up before her. Instantly, T’raving understands what it is that Carrie wants, and forms her fingers in ready willingness for a Vulcan kiss. The fact that Carrie knows what to do and what this means makes her feel wide eyed and giddy with it.

Carrie’s hand shakes a little as she brings it up to T’raving’s, the first sign of hesitation, of nervousness, showing in the tiny gesture.

But when their fingertips meet, T’raving feels only surety and affection, and an undercurrent of _want_.

Without wasting a second more, she pulls Carrie in by the collar of her uniform, crushing their hands between their chests, and kisses her. Somehow she feels surer about this than anything she’s ever done. And when Carrie's free hand finds its way to T'raving's ear and feels the roundness there, sending a wave of amusement across the connection between them, it doesn't bother her at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Would love to hear feedback on these OCs, tbh. In their regular universe T'raving is not a Vulcan but has basically the same issues as one, lmao. And Carrie is more volatile. Inspired by this [post](https://planetlovestory.tumblr.com/post/165220303009/plant-dad-sulu-makes-eye-contact-with-a-vulcan).
> 
> [My Tumblr.](https://gallantrejoinder.tumblr.com/)


End file.
